But the Monon doesn't run them anymore.
Miles pass mutely by on the way to Monticello.
Hoping some of my questions are lost on the way home.
Your signature was recognized by men much smarter than me.But their rate of concentration lapses.
Replaced by apprehension, realizing what, if not sure when.
But not long...as your fuel breezes past their skyward gaze,
as it tracks down the middle of the street.
I see the black sky boil over and spill to the ground.
And it tracks down the middle of the street...taking aim on all I know.
The walls are giving up, but instruments persevere.
Pressure and mercy rapidly fade in equal measure.
Accounting for what is no longer.Trying to remember all I know, now gone.
Disbelief tunnels my vision.
And it tracks down the middle of the street.
